From the Ashes
by Angerora
Summary: The Reapers are beings of order and magic is a wild thing, and so Nirn burns. Fifty thousand years later the Prince of Madness has a world to avenge, and the Hero of Kvatch has an old friend to save. A Shepard-is-Martin fic.


**Hello! So this is an idea I've had sitting in my writing folder for a while now, and I finally decided to post it. One thing to note is that Sheogorath here will be depicted as female, since my player character was female in Oblivion. Also, the main events of the story will more or less follow Mass Effect's timeline until around the end of the first game, and then seriously branch off.**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please tell me what you think!**

* * *

Nearly fifty thousand years ago, there was a planet whose inhabitants had the potential to break the cycle of extinction. It was small and, from a distance, unremarkable. It had two moons and one medium-sized star. One unfamiliar with it might have made the assumption that it was so special because it had borne not one but _many_ sentient races: The Mer, the Men, and the Beastfolk.

Nirn was special not only for that, but because it served as the link between the realms of Mundus, Aetherius, and Oblivion. It existed in our dimensional plane only _mostly_ , and it was the only planet the denizens of other planes concerned themselves with. Left to its own devices, the peoples of Nirn would have been well on their way to galactic dominance before realizing the significance of Element Zero, the Mass Effect, and the Mass Relays. They were a tumor in the Intelligence's design that was nearly ready to explode into malignancy as far as the Reapers were concerned, and when the planet was discovered it could not be allowed to survive.

Just entering the fifth century of the Fourth Era, Nirn was bombed without warning. There was no Harvest, there was only merciless extermination. Such weaponry had never been seen by the planet before, and without warning the people had no way of defending themselves. Too wrapped up in their own affairs, the Daedra did not intervene until it was too late; by the compact the Aedra could not. The Dovah, soaring proud in their skies, tried to stop the eezo bombs for territorial reasons… But without understanding what they were, they were doomed to fail. In many cases, not even their bones remained. The mortal races were blissfully unaware, and didn't even have time to scream before they simply vaporized.

The only effort not in vain was made by Sheogorath, whose only goal was to steal the pride and sorrow of the Imperial City. By the beginning of the next planetary cycle, from Akavir to Elswyer, Nirn was home to nothing but the ashes of the dead.

And in the Shivering Isles, nothing could be heard from New Sheo but the scraping of chimera claws against unyieldingly divine stone…

* * *

From his early teens, John Shepard knew that something was wrong. Homeless on the streets of New York City, he thought it was normal. He didn't have a family anymore like kids his age were supposed to, so it made sense that he felt he was missing something. His mother had died in childbirth, and three years later his father had handed him off to an uncle before enlisting in the Systems Alliance Navy. George Shepard had subsequently gotten himself killed.

His uncle had been on the elderly side, with long white hair and eyes yellowing from nicotine overuse, but he had been a surprisingly good caretaker considering his temperament. The neighbors had been worried when they heard Harold had adopted a toddler, keeping the Social Services number on speed-dial the first few years, but the man with a reputation for being a wild partier settled down immediately. He became… Almost respectable. As a parent, he was overprotective but otherwise too laid-back, but John had been happy.

And then, shortly after John's fourteenth birthday, he was gone. No note, nothing beforehand that might have aroused suspicions. John was awoken one morning by a vicar, to his shock, on the steps of a church in an unfamiliar city. Born and bred in Orlando, Florida, he found himself stranded in Los Angeles with his uncle not answering his phone calls. The vicar was kind enough to walk him to the police station, and John spent the better part of the day waiting for them to try and get documents from Florida. They found none, and to his horror they asked him to leave.

After two weeks and a half of wandering in the bewildering masses of people and buildings, only just finding enough clean water to drink and food to eat, he was approached by a gang. The Reds, they called themselves, were willing to take him 'under their wing'.

He had seen them, with their red armbands. Had seen them steal, which he found himself surprisingly okay with. He had done the same with food and water bottles, when he needed to. Had seen them maim and kill, which he found he was _not_ okay with. Violence in the name of defense he could approve of. Honorable battle, too, but that was a silly thought to have.

John expressed his gratitude for the offer, but ultimately turned them down. He had a feeling that it would have been a slippery slope to go down, and doubted he would be able to hold on to any sort of moral code for long if he wanted to survive running with the Reds. It was a feeling deep in his gut, like he had been down that road before. The leader had said he understood, but John hadn't liked the ugly smirk the boy at his back had flashed him…

When they tried to jump him two days later, he somehow managed to shove one out of his way and make a break for safety. Having slammed the church door shut, an apology was already stammering out of his mouth before he realized the only other occupant was smiling in welcome.

He ended up helping the woman clean the empty chamber, and when she offered shelter he took it in a heartbeat. As religion had seen a sharp decline since First Contact, Margaret was very poor, but in exchange for helping to clean and prepare for services he would be allowed to borrow bedding each night and sleep in the pews. She also made sure he had at least one good meal in the morning. John came to love the church, though he couldn't bring himself to become a devotee. Something just… Didn't feel _right_ for him about the Episcopal faith. Something was missing, something was off.

But he couldn't stay cooped up all day forever, and braving the streets meant the occasional scuffle. After the first time, though, John made sure that they didn't leave unscathed. Something in him balked at the idea of letting them get away with their 'crimes against him', and over the passing months he became quite the street fighter.

When he was eighteen, an unfamiliar face came to the church outside of service hours. A military man, apparently there for John on behalf of the police department. He was guilty of innumerable counts of petty thievery and had been in more than his fair share of fights with local gangs. Margaret was gone, and by all rights John should have been terrified. But he wasn't, the same part of him that told him to reject the Reds and then, later, to fight them instead of yield was telling him to stand tall now. Was it wrong to feed himself? Was it wrong to defend himself? No, and he was sorry it was necessary but not for the actions themselves.

The man finished listing all the counts he was being charged with, then studied him for several moments. John said nothing at first, but when it became clear that the man was waiting for him to say something he spoke. "Alright. But if you really want to keep people safe, you should do something about those gangs. I just did what I had to."

The man was silent a moment longer. "The name's David Anderson." To John's surprise, he held out a hand. "Listen, seems to me you're a good kid. We could use someone like you in the Navy, if you'd rather sign up than waste your life on the streets and in and out of jail. It'd be a damn waste."

The thing inside him roared approval as he took the offered hand.

* * *

He finds his place in the Navy helps alleviate the feeling of wrongness. Each rise in standing helps, but it never leaves completely. He takes the offer of N-7 training immediately, practically biting off the offering hand in his desperation to accept. The thought behind it is perhaps if he earns the prestigious rank, the feeling will go away. It had been there so long he'd almost forgotten it was there, but the gradual chipping away has brought it to the forefront; wreathing just below the surface of his psyche and itching.

When he graduates the program he feels a burst of pride, but it just makes the nagging itch worse. He's so close and he'd managed to convince himself this would make it go away, and he buries himself in work to stave off the disappointment. Otherwise, he might just break something.

It's a relief when the order comes and he's headed off to fight in the Skyllian Blitz. He's given lead of a ground squad and despite his anxiety on the way to the drop point, when they hit the ground he finds the leadership comes naturally. They'd done drills and practice scenarios in training and he'd done well enough, sure, but something about the reality of having lives depending on him makes everything smoother. Few of the tactics he uses are those he learned in training, the commands are reflexive, he doesn't hesitate to incorporate willing civilians when he must, everything he does is unorthodox and _wrong_ but it feels so _right_.

He keeps looking over his shoulder for someone, but he doesn't know who.

* * *

An influx of pirates come swarming in, and he orders everyone to take cover. They're outnumbered two to three if you count everyone- One to four if you don't count the civilians. He uses himself and two of his soldiers as bait while everyone else flanks in from both sides (but not from behind, behind is where they came from and there may be more waiting to flood in). It's the first time he's done this but it feels somehow routine, civilian fighters and all, and by the blessing of some higher power _all_ of the people under his command and care walk away without life-threatening injuries. John himself is shot in the chest, but damn if he's going to let that kill him.

When he's released from the medic bay and debriefs his commanding officer, he is happy but not surprised by the short 'job well done' speech. It's later that the problems surface, when other people go out of their way to congratulate him and do things for him. It makes him awkward and he doesn't know how to handle it, and somewhere in the back of his mind it makes him a little peeved. The civilians who chose to take arms and stand with him deserve the recognition far more than he does, they showed far more courage than him.

But he says nothing, because he doesn't know how. It isn't his place to decide who gets recognition, though the itch tacks on a _yet_. John buries the thought. He doesn't really want a place of authority, doesn't want people looking up to him; his discomfort with the special treatment he's been getting is proof of that. He just wants to do his duty to his people…

Doesn't he? He isn't so sure anymore, not with the itch, and he would be lying if he said it didn't bother him. It had become such a huge part of his sense of self that he wanted to do his best _for his people_ , not himself.

He has moments when Alliance blues feel alien. Donning the dress uniform for the award ceremony was one of said moments, and looking in the mirror sends him into vertigo. The itch renewed itself, the undercurrent of _wrongwrongwrong_ as ever-present and maddening as ever. By now, though, he's more than well used to it; he hides it perfectly through the pomp and circumstance of the ceremony as he is presented with the prestigious Star of Terra medal for his 'brave deeds'. Shepard knows he doesn't deserve it. Not as much as every single person who fought under his command.

The next morning there's a package waiting for him on the foot of his bed. One of those manila envelopes for packages too large to be sent in a normal envelope but too small to warrant a box, 'John Shepard' scrawled huge in purple ink on both the back and the front. There is no sender name, and for all he knows it's a trap, but his instinct tells him that if it got into his room on a military base and the sender wanted him dead, he'd already be dead. Inside he finds a note and the most curious necklace he's ever seen. It's made of real, sturdy mahogany wood; wings encapsulating a sword stabbing into the part where the necklace strings through the pendant. When he turns the light on to get a better look, he sees that the sword is aiming for a dragon's head. It might just be him reading too much into it, but the way the dragon and sword twine together reminds him vaguely of an hourglass.

He puts it on and the effect is almost instant, his shoulders drop the tension he hadn't been aware of as the whispers of the itch stop for the first time in eight years. Shepard takes a moment to revel in its absence, then picks up the note with shaking hands.

 _I'm sorry, Martin._

There is no signature.

* * *

Shepard is honored to be appointed Executive Officer of the SSV Normandy, but standing next to the pilot he can't help but stare at the Arcturus Relay as something nasty brews in his gut. He's seen pictures and models of Mass Relays and travelled through his fair share with the Navy, but never seen one with his own eyes. He supposed he could have, if he'd wanted to, but usually he spent what little free time he had reading and playing with his weak biotics rather than looking out windows. Being in space makes him uneasy, and reminding himself of how little stands between him and the void makes his palms sweat.

The Mass Relay is different. He doesn't know why, but something about the massive structure makes him nervous. The light it casts is pretty, but… Shepard cuts off his line of thought. It isn't becoming of an N-7 to be so superstitious about something so silly, much less a supposed 'war hero'. The Relay system was perfectly safe provided one had a good pilot, and the pilot of the Normandy was the best in the Navy.

Mr. Moreau starts the countdown, and in the end Shepard has to return to the CIC.

* * *

When the Prothean artifact tries to pull Alenko in, something in him snaps. Alenko is under _his_ command, right now, and he's already lost someone this mission. His people are his responsibility, damn it! Adrenaline and willpower and something _else_ give him the strength to reach the struggling man in time and then push him out of harm's way, but it isn't enough to escape it himself. It lifts him into the air and he can feel it trying to mentally push its way into his head and it _hurts_. He bares his teeth at the unseen foe, and the thing in him that had been pacified by the amulet snarls to life, snapping at the mental battering ram. But whatever it is, it isn't enough. He's shoved aside in his own mind, and terrible images and unintelligible sounds come rushing in. It starts as a trickle and flares into a tsunami, tearing at and flaying his own self-

Suddenly it stops and he hears a distant thud, but it takes a moment for dull pain to register. His sides both hurt like he was body-slammed onto concrete, the stinging pain that he knows'll hurt like a bitch in the morning. It's nothing compared to the ongoing explosion in his head, though; he has difficulty thinking through the haze.

He doesn't know how much time has passed when he realizes there are fingers snapping in his face, and he starts. Blinking a little too rapidly, he frowns when he realizes he doesn't know the perpetrator.

"Helloooo? Anyone still in there?" He stares stupidly at the woman with yellow eyes, mind taking its time at recovering. She huffs as he blinks again. "Well, at least you haven't turned into a vegetable. Yet. Stupid lug." Something is pressed to his lips and he drinks without thinking about it. He knows he shouldn't have and he knows he'll be kicking himself later, but he isn't really in a position to resist. Whatever it is, it clears his head and dulls the pain almost immediately.

He jumps to his feet and draws his gun simultaneously, aware now that both Ashley and Kaiden are down. They're definitely unconscious, but he can't tell if they're dead or alive. That he himself is still breathing makes him inclined to believe they're alive for the moment. The woman with yellow eyes is still there, and she does nothing but lift an eyebrow at his Mattock V. They stay like that for a moment, the only movement coming from the wind blowing her white hair. The unusual eye and hair color- she can't be past her early thirties- remind him abruptly of Uncle Harold, and the realization is enough to stun him for a moment.

Staring down his gun, she laughs. "Oh, I'm flattered! But don't waste your bullets on me, sweetie." A pause. "Heat sink. Whatever! Humans, too sharp for your own good, really. Too big a bother to keep up with the new gizmos."

He lowers the gun, but doesn't reholster it. If this woman wanted him dead or captive, she already had her golden chance; but something about her makes his hair stand on end. "Who are you?" He sees no weapons on her, though he supposes she could be a formidable biotic. "Civilians shouldn't be here."

She raises an eyebrow and a smirk tugs at her lips. "Not going to introduce yourself first? Military types!" She snorts, and Shepard can't help the eyebrow creeping up his own face. "Well, if you simply _must_ know my name first, call me Sarah." The eyebrow creeps higher, and the gun twitches in his hands. He gets the distinct impression that if he doesn't hold firm, she'll see it as a sign to absolutely _bury_ him in bullshit. Her hands come up, she throws her head to the side. "Fine, fine! No need to get trigger happy, Mr. Soldier. My full name's too much of a mouthful and we don't have time, so call me Sarah. Really."

He grinds his teeth but decides to take her on her word, not willing to expend the effort to drag it out of her if she doesn't want to tell. "Alright then, _Sarah_. What are you doing in the middle of a skirmish with the geth?"

She shrugs, then flashes him a pearly grin. "I got bored, and lo and behold! A heretic geth invasion just next door! Shiny Prothean artefacts trying to template on humans! Glowy and 'splody stuff!" That isn't an adequate explanation, and he doesn't like that she didn't give a straight answer. He _knows_ she has a better reason, and frankly it pisses him off that 'Sarah' isn't willing to tell him anything. But something about her tells him she'll feed him progressively more ludicrous stories if he pushes.

"Is there _anything_ true you're willing to tell me, Sarah?"

"Hmm…" She puts a finger to her chin in mockery of thought. "That depends. Could you tell me your name, first, oh dashing stranger?"

He rolls his eyes. "… Systems Alliance Executive Officer Shepard of the SSV Normandy."

Sarah grins and he inexplicably feels like he's just lost some unspoken game. "Well, that sounded awkward coming out of your mouth! Bet that name doesn't feel like it fits you, does it? And that title! Never thought I'd see the day you'd willingly spew that shit." He frowns, and she sighs dramatically. "Anyway, if you simply _must_ know the truth… Well, you're the reincarnation of the priest and spiritual son of a dragon god who defeated an army of invading demons and saved the world by the side of his _amazingly perfect_ lady in literal shining armor. And then your homeworld was destroyed, and a demon god planted you here as a pawn in an upcoming war against another demon god, and I just saved you from having your mind and nervous system blown to smithereens by the artefact of a race of supremacist dumbasses to protect an _investment._ Demon gods and their games, you know! Oh, and the demons are actually called Daedra, but it's not like you know anything about them in this life anyway so demons're _close enough._ "

Shepard can't do anything but stare. _What the fuck_. She's fucking with him, or she's batshit insane, and he honestly doesn't know which of the two is more likely.

"Shepard? You there? Aww shit, you aren't dead are you? Great. Juuuuust great. I can see the news headings now-" The voice coming in over the comm startles him, but after a moment he presses his comm button with one hand and opens his omnitool with another.

"Joker, this is Shepard. Do you have a read on my location?"

"Oh, great! Yeah, you need a pick-up?"

"Ashley and Kaidan are both down but alive and the Prothean artifact is secure."

"We'll be there in ten! Joker out." The comm channel closed.

Sarah had crossed her arms and leaned back over the platform railing during the course of the conversation, looking every inch like he was doing her some massive inconvenience. "You done yet?"

He really has no idea what to do with her, and he realizes with a groan that he'd failed to mention Sarah. "Yeah, the Alliance will be here with transport in ten minutes. I'm going to have to ask you to come with us." Emphasis on _has to_ , because in no way does he _want to_. He knows she'll be way more trouble than she's worth, but his superiors will want her to be questioned. The circumstances of her appearance and her actions, while beneficial as far as he can prove, are too suspicious to let slide.

"Oh, and let your Alliance question me?" She huffs. "Naaaaah, not really feeling it today."

He grimaces, half-raising his gun. He doesn't want to threaten her into compliance, but it seems he might have to if he wants to do his duty. "You don't really have a choice, ma'am."

Now that raises both eyebrows. She studies him for a moment, then lowers her arms and spreads them in a pacifying gesture, palms out as if showing she means no harm. "Oh, I'm a ma'am now? How nice!" Assuming that that is the end of that, he lowers the Mattock.

And the suddenly she leaps, doing a backflip over the railing.

"Sorry, Martin, but not today!" He runs to the railing as she yells, but when he stares down she's nowhere to be found. He should search for her, and when the shuttle comes and they've loaded Ashley and Kaiden in the order to take him to the rocks below is on his lips, waiting to be given. Sarah is probably dangerous if she felt the need to run, on top of probably being insane. But something about her last words hit home, and he finds himself reaching up to touch where the amulet rests, hidden underneath his armor.

 _Martin_ , she'd called him.

The name isn't his, but he can't help but think that it rolls off his tongue a little too easily.


End file.
